How to Save a Life
by TrenchcoatsAreSexy
Summary: Tritter encounters Wilson at the police station. Spoilers for 7x23.


How to Save a Life

"_I would have stayed up with you all night,_

_Had I known how to save a life…"_

- "How to Save a Life", The Fray

May 24th was shaping up to try and be the worst day of my life. First of all, I had lost my key, for the first time in my damn life. I had to wait, at three o'clock in the morning, for Candy (my club-hopping niece who was still staying with me for another week) to return home to let me in.

She'd also brought with her some goth girl, who apparently needed some moral support because it was the one-year anniversary of the death of some rock star bassist.

That wouldn't have all been quite so bad – I mean, if Paul McCartney had died I guess I'd be a bit broken up about it, I'll admit – but things quickly went from bad to worse after my pitiful two hours of sleep.

I drove into work, trying desperately to keep my head from falling into my dashboard, only to be greeted with the news that my boss wanted to see me.

Oh, great.

My boss, as it were, is Lt. Monika Alvarez, and she would be attractive if she wasn't such an intense bitch. She's tall and sort of slim but sort of curvy, bronze-skinned and has big olive eyes. She also has despised me ever since she first met me, which was three years ago. She enjoys reminding me that if I'd done half the shit I'd done on the force while she was the boss, she'd have fired me.

Yeah, we get along spectacularly.

When I walked into her office, I was greeted by the words, "Your favorite person committed another crime."

I grimaced at her. I hoped to hell it wasn't another Vogler relative. They always ended up getting pulled in for something – admittedly, the most serious by far had just been some drunk driving charges – and then getting mysteriously released due to Edward Vogler's influence. Why was this guy even still around? If I had billions of dollars I would like in Malibu, not Princeton.

"Dr. House," she began, and I looked at her with a blink. "Is wanted for driving his car into his ex-girlfriend's…" She grinned, as if she was doing a great pun, "House."

"I see," I replied, groaning inwardly. Just what I needed – more House shit to come back and bite my ass. The whole past few weeks had been shit – my girlfriend, Karen, had broken up with me because she didn't feel I was sensitive enough, and in a momentary lapse of reason I'd slept with Britney, the department secretary, who had told me all of three days ago that she was apparently pregnant, after which Karen had called me and asked if I wanted to get back together.

Things were not all well on Planet Tritter.

Not at all.

"Dr. Wilson is in the interrogation room. Go get his statement." Alvarez extended her arm to hand me a file. "And go put this information in the warrant system so we can nail House when he comes back." She shrugged. "I know you'll want to get it done most of all, so I'm giving it to you. Have fun in your vendetta. Go."

I grabbed the file and walked over to the room, and just as promised, Dr. Wilson was sitting there, staring down at the desk. I had not expected him to look about ten years older than I'd seen him last (which had only been five years), nor did I expect him to be cradling a wrist in a cast.

"What, he ran you over first?" I asked with a snort. Wilson was such a pushover. He shook his head and didn't look up from the desk. "Okay, so, sorry. All right. What happened?"

"I was with him in the car," he recited in monotone, "We drove to Cuddy's. He wanted to return a… hairbrush… He went up and I don't know what happened next, but he told me to get out of the car, and I did. I was… really frightened. The car… went down the road and turned around and I jumped out of the way, that's how I broke my wrist and… then I just saw the car go into the house, and he just… opened the door, handed her the hairbrush and then walked away." I blinked, writing down his words.

"Not particularly fast, I assume?"

"We were all in shock," Wilson replied with a shrug. He slowly looked up to meet my eyes, and I saw his face crease in pain. "He's not going to survive jail." I shrugged in response.

"You did all you can do, Dr. Wilson. House has got to sink or swim on his own. You can't pull him along forever."

"He's going to die," Wilson whispered.

"He'll be fine," I said in a voice that I'm sure sounded more annoyed than reassuring. "Is there anything else you remember about what happened? Anything he said to you, maybe?" Wilson laughed, sounding a bit hysterical.

"He said that I was right, that he did feel better. I'd been telling him to let his anger out."

"Leave it to House," I replied simply and stood up.

"He's going to die," Wilson cried out, a little louder this time. "He's too dependent on the Vicodin and… his leg…" He looked over at me again. "Going to? I don't even know… if he's alive, now. I haven't heard a word, he might be dead." I walked out the door of the room, leaving Wilson there as he began to sob quietly.

My office wasn't such a long distance from the interrogation room, and I put my key in the door and twisted, surprised to find that my partner, Detective Bennett, wasn't inside. She must have been interviewing some other suspect or witness or was out on lunch break.

My desk was pretty spare, with no photos of family or friends to clutter it up. There were a couple of cups filled with pens, a computer and printer, and a small and oddly efficient shredder that I'd bought from Staples a week ago when my old one, big and irritating and loud, had given out. I placed the file down in front of the computer and pulled up the warrant database and began typing, "House, Gregory"...

A knock sounded on my door and a moment later, Detective Bennett popped her head in.

"Taking Dr. Wilson out for a drink and then home 'cause trust me, he needs one. You coming?" she called. I shook my head.

"No, I'm fine, Bennett," I called back, and she disappeared.

_I don't even know if he's alive._

I deleted what I'd written on the warrant search and closed out of it before opening up another window – an airline search so we could, if necessary, head off people trying to flee the country if they'd bought tickets to somewhere without extradition.

A ticket in the name of Dr. Gregory House, purchased for St. John's, Antigua.

I clicked the little X on the window and looked at the file again.

_He's going to die._

_He's not going to survive jail._

Wilson's voice.

And then another: _Good luck. I hope I'm wrong about you. _

I walked over and locked the door. My fingers clumsily turned on the shredder.

And I watched the file on Dr. Gregory House, wanted for reckless endangerment and destruction of property, split into a million pieces before my eyes.

I walked back to the door and unlocked it, seeing Bennett go to grab her blazer.

"I think I might take you up on that drink," I told her. "Are you buying?"

"Definitely," she replied. "Britney Miller?" She rolled her eyes. "You NEED one." She gestured sadly in the direction of the interrogation room. "Poor guy. He's still crying about House." She tilted her head to the side. "What are you looking so smug about? What'd you just do?"

"Saved a life." She just shrugged, and walked back to return with Wilson.

As she did, I made my plan, the plan I'll do tonight.

I'll go to the store and I'll buy a blank postcard, address it to Dr. James Wilson, and on the card will be just the words, "He's alive".

And when Dr. House comes back, whenever that is, he'll have no escape from the judgments of the friends he's screwed over once again.

Maybe that's a more fitting punishment. Maybe I'll think of it that way.

THE END 


End file.
